The Sun Will Still Rise
by Lonelygreydog
Summary: Alfred is a young american fighting for the British army in 1916 alongside his compatriot Matthew. Both men bond over their lives outside the war and will do anything to see the other get out alive. Arthur waits back at London, clinging on to the scarce letters Alfred wrote for him and yearns to see his friend return home alive. APH WW1 Two-Shot. Rated T for violence
1. The Shadows

Part I

The Shadow's Sun Casts

The Fate of Europe endured on a fine thread for the last coming decades as unwanted, and unneeded pressure strained the great continent like the powder kegs that felt a great compulsion themselves to tear across the land. Finally when the thread was snipped by golden scissors and the deprived kegs blew up grander and more devastatingly than anyone had anticipated, it left people to wonder when this was all to end. And, when it was to end—if it was to end—what misfortunate shadow would be cast over the lives of the millions of people that lay claim to the great country of Earth?

In the great maw of bloodshed were necessities, and comfort, and everything that made life for the many fragile creatures normal, but as the aggression propagated and swallowed up Europe the commodity hardest to find was family. Stripped of their husbands, their children, their brothers, their lovers, too many were forced to start anew with their hearts so badly broken. In the years that followed the war, there were some who received the pleasure of saying their hero returned home. For most others, the company of ghosts lingered in their cold living rooms and parlors, unseen and unheard, but not unwanted.

Arthur sat in a worn armchair in the dimmed light of his small London apartment, thinking about the ghosts that lingered in _his_ cold heart. In the empty chairs and quiet air was the present memory of a charming young American who lived in these walls not so long ago. The only vestige Arthur held the youth was a distressed photograph that only grew increasingly worn, and the scarce stack of letters Arthur wished had been larger. The tired man sighed wistfully and out of sheer force of habit, he began reading the letter dated September 1914.

 _Dear Arthur,_

 _The army isnt as bad as you made it out to be. You really do worry for nothing, you know? The drills ain't bad and I think the only thing I could really complain about is the food. We've been doing a lot of marching and rifle drills. Who knew I'd be a good shot? And you'd said I'd shoot an eye out in a week. Well, Art, I'm sorry to inform you I still have both my eyes._

 _I'm sitting in my tent right now with a few new buddies of mine. Though, their a loud sort and I don't think you'd like them much. But you don't like anybody much, do you? I'm honestly surprised you tolerated me staying at your place as long as you did. You know how while we were still in university you said that you wanted to travel around the world? Maybe I'll live long enough to take you with me through Europe after this is all over._

 _It's been raining for the past day which is the only reason I'm able to write you at the moment. It's too muddy to go out for drills and we've been stuck in our tents for hours. I can't imagine the poor blokes fighting out there in this weather. I suppose that's something I'm not looking forward to, frankly._

 _Have you ever been to France? It's a nice change in pace, I'd say. Nothing like the dirty streets of London. Everything's so spread out and the land is so green. The locals are nice, and the girls are pretty. You'd like it here, I think._

 _Au Bientot,_

 _Alfred._

 _P.S. I've been working on my French._

Arthur let a sad smile play his lips before he gently folded the paper. Placing it neatly on his end table, he picked up another letter. The date read April 1915.

 _Dear Arthur,_

 _We have settled in a small town in the north of France. It's interesting how few people live here. The town seems to have far fewer men than women, and most of the males are elderly or adolescent. I suppose this war has dwindled the population of men in all of Europe. The locals are rather disturbed by the presence of soldiers in town, but I've been looking past that. It's nice to get a break from all the fighting, and if that means disrupting a few, I'll gladly take it. On a side note, if you ever do go to France the natives do not appreciate being talked at in english. One young lady had the honors of hitting me with her purse. It seems the months of hardship have stripped away all my charm . Matthew and I hit the pub yesterday. What I call beer and what the French call beer are disappointingly different. It's watery, flavourless, and weak. And I can't say the wine is much better._

 _I suppose I have to take what I have. A break is more than most get in this war. Though, in a few weeks time I'll be back in the trenches killing germans. As the locals say,_ " _Quand on a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a_ "

 _Yours truly,_

 _Alfred F. Jones_

A shadow consumed the confinement of the room at the sight of a particularly doleful letter. Arthur's hand brushed over the worn parchment warily and he could not be certain if he had the will to read _this_ one. "Oh Alfred." He sighed, lowering in thought. "You were so innocent in a time less straining than now. I wish you could have remained that way."

 _Dear Arthur,_

 _I think I'm going to hell. I didn't think it'd be so hard their the enemy but dammit I can't do this anymore. Their people just like you and I and their dead because of me. I killed a man. He didn't do nothing just think about his family oh god their gonna miss him and I can't do nothing about it. He was so young and handsome theres probably some girl back home waiting for him. They make you hate them. They make you want to kill them but dammit their just people too. I'm going to go home when so many others lost their lives to meaningless war._

 _Alfred._

 _November 1914_

 _Dear Arthur,_

 _I'm writing to let you know all is well. Today there wasn't much enemy fire so instead we spent our hours shoveling out water and mud and refortifying fallen trenches. Let me tell you, it's much more exhausting than you'd think. The mud is almost impossible to walk through and I fell down more times than I'd like to admit. Matthew was there right beside me to make sure I didn't fall down too much. It was actually quite a funny endeavor and I pulled him down with me a few times. Our commander wasn't impressed with the mess we made, but I couldn't care less. We need to cherish laughter, because you don't know what day's going to be your last._

 _Right now I'm sitting around a makeshift fire sharing letters with some soldiers. We just got in our Christmas mail today and I'm smiling from ear to ear. Thank you for the chocolate. It really means the world to me! How's London doing these days? I honestly can't wait to get back and see you. Please do tell me about everything when you write me next. I want to know how your Christmas went. Did you get to see your family?_

 _Merry Christmas, Art. Matt says Hi._

 _Jusqu'à notre prochaine reunion,_

 _Alfred._

 _(December 1915)_

* * *

Alfred had become impermeable to normal emotion as the decades of each battle passed. On one occasion, he witnessed the gruesome sight of a thousand casualties being carried off in stretchers from the front lines and fell in a fit of depression, not for the men who gave their lives, but for himself, for he would have to go into the hell in which they had come. It was impossible to stay human in the company of combat and it was impossible not to strip the given title of human from the men who fought on the other side. But every soul knew, and refused to admit, that they were all simply human. Alfred did not have the will to think of that now, but perhaps it would haunt him in the years to come.

 _My dearest Arthur,_

 _How much longer will these poor young men have to lay down their lives for reasons unknown? I've been stuck knee-deep in this muddy hell hole and I still have not a clue when the fighting will end. It seems as if the only time of peace is in the early hours of the morning when the larks have not yet started to sing, and the sun has not yet risen over the trenches. Though, behind the hellish wall of smoke and artillery, the sun is barely recognizable. They told us we'd rotate- a few months of fighting and one on leave. But I have been stuck fighting for… oh god, how long has it been now? I believe 7 months. Four of the men I've started with still live, but I can't say for how much longer we'll hold up. I hope to get Matthew out of here alive. He's the friend I told you about. I miss seeing your face and I_

Alfred put his pen down and stared into the distance.

Through the dust and dirt of yesterday advanced a force with more bravado than any other. Every morning it came without fear to the trenches, through the land of no one unchallenged, and remained upon these men until the late hours when another more pernicious force would march and take its place. With the Great Red General (given the name 'le soleil' by the locals) came the army band to get the men on their feet. Every morning these larks would shout the orders to commence the fighting once more.

The band's bloody cry rang through the hills, the valleys, the thistled black bushes and it rung through the sleeping corpses and the living skeletons who stood in attention, answering the cry and ready to die on both sides.

Dug seven feet under in the grave that would soon claim the lives and identities of these skeletons, not a sound escaped a spectre or the dying dead men with lacerations and mutilations too useless to be bothered with. Deep in the veins of the once thriving country, small creatures held their breath along with the breathless battlefield and waited, and wanted and wielded the fear and anger and sadness and shadows on their slumped shoulders alongside their weapons.

Skeletons sprung to their feet and ran. There was shooting and then shouting. Screams and smoke penetrated the air. It used to be so quiet. All of the skeletons were shot down and forgotten. From the graves there were plenty to take the fallen's place. They were all dead. More shouts. The earth lurched and people fell and more dead. Whistles dropped from above, explosions rattled on both sides and there was the deafening clapping of thunder. Still more dead.

It was Alfred's turn to die. He ran and dove and ducked and dared not look back. He still ran and ran and one more jump. He was in another's grave and none but Matthew joined him. One jerk from a shaking finger and the enemy was dead but his face was still screaming. The screaming wouldn't stop. Make it stop. Alfred covered his ears but he was the one screaming.


	2. The Larks

Part 2

All is Silent but Larks

The sound of silence once more touched the ears of the phantoms that burrowed themselves deep into the cavities of earth. The Great Red General had long called his men back, and to take his place emerged an assailant woman clad in robes of silver. Her militia shadowed her closely and gazed down on the dual armies with blinkless eyes, yet they were unseen through the cloudy fog. The Great Red General advanced and pricked the creatures with smoldering heat, but the moonlit mistress preferred other antics. From her hoary robes, thin cloths were cut and gently placed over the eyes of Earth's children.

The quiet never lasted long and both men, deep in the lines of earth, huddled closely in a desperate attempt not to lose the other. When one sense was stolen, the others became critical and so they listened urgently for any signs of life or death. Their labored breath pierced the air and echoed louder than it should have. Fear assimilated in their very bones and perhaps if a rat had skittered past, both men would have sprung to their feet with guns drawn and ready, but the soundless air still blew gently through the darkness.

"I don't like it," Whimpered the echo of a once assertive voice.

"I know. I don't like it either." Another answered back. He blindly clutched a shred of humanity in his tremulous hands. "It's too quiet"

"Well it _would_ be. Would it kill you to whisper—!" Hissed the twin phantom. There was a prattling of bullets picking up on their own old conversation. Sound was the only thing to be trusted, and the shouting and advancement of ambiguous allegiances were leagues away and not to be worried about. The guns and grenades discussed gallant matters while they took turns drowning out the wails and wretched cries from those material beings. It was a while before the two soldiers could continue where they left off, but they were used this motion of breaking in and out of a conversation like nothing had ever interrupted it.

It was far from silent, but it was also far from the worst it had been. The one with trembling hands took this as an opportunity to remind himself of the earthly plain. "We're still alive" croaked the voice of a man who wanted to remember what speaking sounded like.

"Yes, we are." echoed the other despondently.

"For how long?"

"I can't say."

There was a long pause to let that other tedious conversation go on.

"I remember when the sky used to be blue." He laughed nearly innocently. "I think I used to walk with Arthur through the park every evening and watch the sunset—we wanted to travel, I think—I wonder if he'd like to come to France with me when we're done here. I think he'd like that—I wrote him a letter." His blind eyes from both darkness and gas stared unmoving towards the void in front of him. "I hope… I hope that he hasn't forgotten about me."

Another pause.

"It's better to be forgotten than a wound gnawing away at the hearts of our families. I pray to God that my family can forget about me." The pratting of machine responded with fervor. "Every second's our last, ain't it? We're dead men."

"If you think like that you are—"

"Don't tell me you still think we're gettin' out of this! You're too naïve for your own good."

"And you're a pessimist."

Not a word after was spoken, but perhaps he had wished there had. The echoes of conflict advanced them until the roars and howls pounded in their ears like a frenzied beast. Both, in their muted dread, waiting with tenacious horrors flooding their minds, equally knew that the other shared the same anxieties and thoughts that refused to be suppressed. It was mankind that dragged men down to hell and it was mankind that ruined the lives and minds and freedoms of all the creatures that lay claim to the great country of earth. But it was also mankind that laughed and shared moments with their fellow compatriots and brought hope to many, but there was not a sliver of hope that dared show itself in morbid countenance of battle. The sounds of battle still swallowed the peace of the night and refused to be muted.

He was hit before the deafening, yet familiar pratting of bullets reached the aching ears of the phantoms. The ammunitions that nipped all life in its path would never feel remorse for the innocence it had reaped from a boy too young to die, but too old to go on in the world of the living. His eyes felt heavy and his mind was becoming milky and inky as years drained from his face in seconds until he was older than the country itself. A sliver of childhood refused to leave his wet, fading eyes. "I can see it." He croaked, laughing and coughing red spots.

"Shh" Matthew pleaded, "I know, just hang on. Listen to my voice." His shaking hands clutched Alfred's matted hair and softly placed him on the ground so he could rest.

"The sky is so pretty. Do you see it Matthew?" He chirped like the early larks.

He dimly nodded, and pressed bloody fabric against the wound. "It sounds lovely, Alfred. Tell me more about it."

"Me and Arthur used to take walks. He liked to watch the sun set. It reminded him of… of… Home. I miss home—"

There was a long pause.

"Alfred? Please go on."

Another pause.

"Alfred please!" Matthew begged "tell me more."

"He's forgotten about me." His voice was so inaudible and frail that the wind carried it off towards the stars. Great curtains were beginning to drop over his eyes.

"No, Alfred." He pleaded, and desperately shoved the other to his senses. "He has your letters, he hasn't forgot. He's read all of them. He needs you."

"My letter." Alfred whimpered and looked desperately with unmoving eyes. Matthew placed the red dotted parchment on Alfred's chest. He fingers did not bare the ability to grip, but knowing Arthur was with him gave him peace and he let sleep over come him.


End file.
